


lung

by eyebot



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Needs A Hug, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Sickness, Survivor Guilt, Unhappy Ending, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebot/pseuds/eyebot
Summary: Some time in between Lakay and Murfree Brood Country, Arthur and Charles share a moment of emotional intimacy.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 10
Kudos: 106





	lung

**Author's Note:**

> couldn't quite decide where i wanted to fit this into the main storyline. just shove it where you wanna.
> 
> kudos, comments, etc are always appreciated!
> 
> somewhat inspired by vancouver sleep clinic's song titled "lung", for which the fic is named; the lyrics at the beginning of the fic are from this song as well and they aren't mine whatsoever.

_**Can somebody help me out?** _   
_**I can't find my feet** _   
_**I'm sinking in the deep**_

_**Can somebody pick me up?** _   
_**The voice is too loud** _   
_**I'm losing in the crowd**_

_**Because I, can't breathe  
** _ _**Oh, I can't breathe**_

_**Because I, can't breathe**  
_ _**Oh come and help me out** _

_**Somebody help me out?** _

* * *

Arthur slows his horse to a trot, the leaves behind him dragging across the dirt before coming to a rest in the crevices of a footprint. A gentle breeze rustles the branches of the trees above their heads and they sway placidly, highlighted by the moonlight that crests their edges. The sky is a clear and cloudless navy blue, peppered with lily white stars that shimmer distantly. The path before them is isolated and deserted of all daytime traffic; a few faded wagon tracks remain dug into the dirt, but the area is essentially devoid of human activity.

Charles, noticing Arthur's lag behind, slows Taima to match Arthur's speed and rides alongside him. Charles is silent for a moment, his shoulders slack as he moves in tow with Taima's trot.

"'S peaceful out here," Arthur says, making small conversation to break the silence that had settled upon them. "Haven't had much of that lately."

Charles tilts his head curiously, fixating his gaze upon Arthur. "No," he agrees delicately, "We haven't. But this isn't Murfree Country, not yet."

Arthur hasn't the energy to ask Charles what he means about Murfree Country. He is tired, physically and otherwise; his bones ache incessantly and his lungs, with each and every expansion and contraction, grow tired. He cherishes every inhale that fills his lungs and presses them against the backs of his ribs; appreciates them just the same as he appreciates a clip of bills, for breathing is often an act of normalcy that is taken for granted. 

"I still ain't properly thanked you for puttin' your ass on the line back in Saint Denis," Arthur tells him roughly, realizing that the bank robbery felt like ages ago, now. Quietly, he adds, "Thought maybe... Thought maybe I wouldn't see you again. 'Specially after we ended up on that damn island."

"How was that, anyway?" Charles asks with a mirthful tone, "Sounds like it was quite the vacation."

Arthur scoffs at that, his eyes sad despite the circumstances. "For us, it probably was. The hosts weren't too friendly, though."

"Because of your bounty?" Charles inquires, his eyebrows raising slightly. Arthur notices the way the moon highlights his hair; thin bands of light against dark, riding against the curvature of his head.

Arthur hums for a moment, his hand coming to rest on his thigh while the other kept hold of the reins. "A little bit," he admits, "But they wasn't too kind to other folk neither. Had to rescue some workers from bein' hanged."

"Hmm," Charles murmurs knowingly. Arthur meets his glance fleetingly; he knows Charles dislikes unnecessary deaths when he can avoid them, and a glint of shame rides through his chest like a bullet.

"They weren't no good people," Arthur clarifies, clearing his throat. "The ones that I killed, I mean. They threw some mean punches, though."

Charles manages a chuckle at that, though it is dry and humorless. "You got in a fistfight with them, then."

"Weren't no fistfight from my end," Arthur says, his cheekbone throbbing dully as though the pain from the encounter had been summoned. "Bastards had me tied to a chair. S'okay, though. I-- we-- well, a lot of them aren't here no more."

"Sounds like they deserved it," Charles retorts vindictively. Despite the darkness, Arthur can see the way Charles's brows lower as he sets his jaw, his shoulders squared.

Arthur heaves a heavy sigh, his lungs aching in protest. "They did, but..." he says wearily, the breeze pushing his hair out of his face. "I dunno much anymore. I thought... I really thought we were goin' to be okay."

His eyes meet the ground, watching the clouds of dirt kicked up by their horses cloud in the air and then settle upon the ground once again, unshaken. "Maybe I'm the fool," he murmurs, his voice breaking slightly; he has to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth to constrict the sob building against the back of his throat.

"It weren't Dutch or Hosea that gave the bank mission the okay," Arthur spits, curling his fingers into a strained fist; his knuckles whiten slightly with the strain, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The words fall off of his tongue like poison, pooling along his chin and snaking around his neck to slowly deprive him of air.

"Arthur... what happened to them was not your fault," Charles says, slowing Taima to encourage Arthur to slow down. It was rare that Arthur ever opened himself up, much less read his own thoughts like the pages of a book; Charles was tentative, cautious, fearful that Arthur may abandon the importance of his well-being.

Thankfully, Arthur slows his horse to hang back alongside Charles, though he hides his face in the shadows of his hat.

"Lenny weren't nothin' but a kid," Arthur says, raising his eyes to meet the sky as he watches the stars intently. "He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have-- He was--"

"Smart enough to make his own decisions, Arthur," Charles replies, his voice level despite the ache in his chest. "You didn't force him to go to Saint Denis. He made that decision on his own."

By now, Arthur has turned his face away from Charles entirely, but Charles knows him well enough to imagine the divided confusion shaping his features. He doesn't say anything for a moment, his breath coming in uneven intervals, ragged and rough.

"We didn't even get to bury 'em," Arthur sighs, his voice lacking the usual vindictive anger that it carries. Now, he is more worn out and tattered, as months of loss catch up to him like a shackle around his ankles. "They were probably hauled to some ditch like-- like--"

"Arthur," Charles says soothingly, gently, holding his breath as if Arthur were a house of cards in danger of collapsing. "Arthur, can you look at me?"

A shaky intake of breath is the only indication that Arthur is even awake at all, his shoulders rising unsteadily with the movement. By now, the two of them have become stationary entirely, their horses braying softly as they hoof the dirt beneath them. Taima flicks her tail with a subtle indifference, not at all opposed to the rest break.

"Hey," Charles murmurs, softer now. "Arthur, do you trust me?"

The question seems to shake Arthur out of whatever stupor he had fallen into as he inhales deeply, raising his head slightly before he turns to face Charles. His eyes, though they have yet to shed any tears, are bloodshot and watery; his jaw is slack, much like his shoulders, as though all of the fight within him has slipped down the drain.

"Yes," Arthur croaks gruffly after a beat of silence. Despite the plethora of negative emotions vying for dominance in Arthur's glance, his eyes clear with a sense of certainty that has become so rare in recent weeks. "I do."

Charles slides off of Taima, the horse giving a whinny of defiance before relaxing when Charles runs a hand along her neck. Arthur has stilled, though he watches Charles with a sort of precarious curiosity that holds him in place.

"Come here," Charles says after a moment, extending his arms to Arthur, who somehow looked as though he grew even more tired with every second that passed. Charles can see the question lingering in Arthur's eyes; the characteristic curiosity that had been dwindling as time dragged on. "We can take a break. We can use the rest before we get into Murfree Country."

Thankful that Charles provided him with a logical explanation for taking a pause, Arthur reluctantly dismounts his horse and gives her a hearty pat before slinking close to Charles. Charles wraps his arm around Arthur's shoulder, though not without permission; touch was one of Arthur's most intimate ways of showing affection, but it had become harder to come by after his close encounter with Colm O'Driscoll so many weeks back.

He asks with his eyes, raising his eyebrows while holding his hand a considerable distance away from Arthur. Arthur takes little pause to approve of the interaction, and Charles is grateful for the trust that Arthur has placed in him. He whistles softly, motioning for the two of their horses to follow them into the brush a few yards off the trail. They don't go too far, but it is enough to keep them hidden from the view along the path.

"Come on," Charles motions gently, settling against the trunk of a tree and patting the grass beside him.

Arthur, as tired and worn down as he feels, still musters a joke from somewhere within himself. "I might fall asleep on ya," he warns, the hint of a smile tilting the corners of his lips upwards as he settles next to Charles.

"I don't mind," Charles says with honesty. "It'll do us some good to get away from camp for a while. Things have been real strained back there."

Arthur hums in agreement as he rests his head upon Charles's shoulder, sighing softly. "Dutch... Dutch ain't what I thought he was. Not anymore. An' Hosea... I think he was the only thing keepin' us from fallin' apart."

Charles squeezes Arthur's hand reassuringly with a small hum, running his thumb along Arthur's calloused fingers. He wonders, for a moment, how much of the metaphorical blood on his hands that Arthur blames entirely on himself. Arthur, appreciating the message, reciprocates the gesture, squeezing Charles's hand gently.

"Thank you, Charles," Arthur says into the fabric of Charles's coat. He doesn't have to say any more than that to get his point across; Arthur Morgan was never a man of many words when it came to emotional intimacy.

Charles hums, pressing his lips to Arthur's hair. "You okay?"

Arthur tilts his head upwards and meets Charles's eyes, his breathing much less erratic than before. "'M fine now," he says neutrally, though he quirks his lips into a small smile. "You ready to get goin'?"

"Mhm," Charles agrees as they bring themselves to a standing position.

Arthur's hold on Charles's hand lingers for a moment before he finally allows his arm to fall by his side, albeit a bit reluctantly. Charles takes hold of Arthur's wrist, much to his surprise, before tugging him into a much needed hug. Arthur's face finds a place in the crook of Charles's neck, the warmth of his breath warming the bare skin of Charles's jawline.

Charles's fingers find Arthur's chin, tilting his head upwards. Charles rests his forehead against Arthur's, briefly, relishing the close contact that they so often had to hide from those back in camp. Arthur looks into Charles's eyes, a muted uncertainty building in his chest, and he pulls back just as Charles starts to lean forward.

"Charles..." Arthur says, keeping his hold on Charles's arm firm. "'M not sure that's a good idea."

"If it was something I--"

"No," Arthur cuts him off, finally dropping his arm once again. He keeps his eyes trained on Charles, a familiar ache building in his chest. "None of that. I jus'... don't wanna get you sick, Charles."

Charles raises his eyebrows in confusion, all signs of hurt being replaced with a strained worry. "You're sick?"

"Mm," Arthur shrugs, clicking his tongue to call his horse over. "I was gonna wait to tell you, but..."

"If you're sick, you shouldn't be out here," Charles says firmly, looking directly into Arthur's eyes. "Shouldn't you be getting rest?"

"Rest won't fix anythin', Charles," Arthur speaks with a distant kind of sadness that is a stranger to the both of them.

Arthur, as strong and determined and loyal as he may be, is entirely worn out as he mounts his horse. His firm expression says he's finished talking about it, at least for the time being. Charles mounts Taima, albeit reluctantly, trailing alongside Arthur down the road toward Beaver Hollow.

Only now does Charles see how sick Arthur has really become; like rain clouds clearing to make way for the sun after a storm, he sees Arthur through the chaos that their life has become. He is much thinner now, almost lanky in build; there is almost always a sheen of sweat sticking to his body, and his skin is pale and ghostly. A brush of irritation along his nose and cheeks are the only contrast to this paleness; his skin has lost its color, his hair its shine.

Almost always, Arthur is overtaken by violent fits of coughing that often produce blood. They've become more and more frequent as of late, and Charles is sure the stress of being with the gang hasn't helped things in any way.

"Rest when we've set up here, then," Charles says desperately, hoping for an outcome that he knows he will not receive.

"I will," Arthur returns with resignation, a sentence that they both know is a lie; a lie that they are both fool enough to believe.

**Author's Note:**

> also: i took my multichapter charthur fic down but i will be rewriting it again! it's just majorly unedited and it kind of strayed from what i wanted it to be. so i'm gonna change the plot and stuff but it'll have the same base ideas!


End file.
